


no need to say goodbye

by rainglazed



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mild Gore, The Calling, Zevran gets a bit beat up and it's distressing, amell is going through the calling and it is Not Going Well, mentions of disassociation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainglazed/pseuds/rainglazed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She needed to stop this.</i><br/>If he would not understand she would make him understand, Void damn him.</p>
<p>Amell is experiencing her Calling and they are running out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no need to say goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thecaryatid](thecaryatid.tumblr.com) because I promised her a fic if she went to bed before midnight and I am nothing if not a girlfriend who keeps her word (even if it takes me a while to deliver...) 
> 
> Title taken from "The Call" by Regina Spektor, which is the single most fitting otp song for the Warden I've ever heard.

It was an ache in her bones singing, singing, singing, numbing her teeth and scratching the inside of her skull as she strained towards it, a taut bowstring, desperately cocking her head to hear just a little more of the seductive, depraved music rattling through her ribcage.

Hunger.  Decay.  _Calling_. 

“Hush, dear Warden, hush.” 

Amell’s grip tightened on her staff as she glared daggers at the tired, dirty figure crouched next to her.  Dull, bedraggled hair fell into his eyes as he peered up into her face, figure half cast in shadow by the weak flicker of the campfire.  Gentle fingers smoothed over the tense muscle straining the back of her neck. 

“It will pass.  It always passes,” he murmured.    

She snarled.  So easy.  To snap and break and feast, soft flesh ripping and dripping until her hands were dark dark dark like the earth, like the caverns and rot and the Call and no, _NO_ —“

“Amell.  Mi amor.”  His voice broke.  “Please.” 

She realized her fingers were digging into his wrists and dropped them immediately.  White indents stood stark against his dark skin.  They would bruise, she thought distantly, and the knowledge made some small, almost forgotten part of herself curl up like a wounded thing. 

“You should leave,” she heard herself say, voice cracking.  “The food, you could—” 

“Ah!  I’d almost forgotten.”  He turned briefly, leaving his flank exposed (nails burrowing through ribs and soft muscle and pulsing organs STOP STOP STOP) and retrieved something from the fire.  “Not much for hunting, these mountains, but I did manage to trap one of those charming nugs this morning.  Let’s not tell our dear Sister Nightingale about this, hmm?” 

He spooned a bit of the broth to her mouth.  Obediently she parted her lips only to gag as the food hit her throat. 

“I can’t,” she croaked, leaning forward into his shoulder.  Calloused hands ran down her back, soothing.  “Zevran, the Taint, I can’t.” 

The hands ran up her shoulders, cradled the back of her head.  “It’s that bad now, hmm?” 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped.  It was getting worse, the days blurring together, entire hours lost to the siren song before she’d come back to herself.  “We were supposed to find the cure sooner,” she whispered. 

“Well, we always knew this was, as they say, a long shot,” Zevran hummed.  “However, if there was ever one to overcome the odds it was always you, my dear Warden.” 

He still believed in her.  The thought sent a chill down Amell’s spine.  Would he follow her even after she had fallen to the calling, became, became —she broke off the thought, shuddering, but her mind gave her no rest.   

Follow her even when there was no one in her body left to follow, to the Deep Roads and into the darkness until the blight took him, beloved, scarred skin run through with corruption, clear eyes glassy and fevered, flesh rotting from familiar bones…

Or would she turn on him first?  Would he fight back? 

This needed to stop. 

_She_ needed to stop this. 

If he would not understand she would make him understand, Void damn him.

Frantic laughter bubbled up as the ugly thought bloomed, an unkind sound that caused Zevran to still, movements careful.  Like a man might approach a wounded beast.  Like one would move as prey. 

“It’s not my odds you should be worrying about, _you fool_.” 

He tried to pull away but her hands flashed up, held him still in a white knuckled, uncompromising grip that left him no quarter. 

Hunger and long travel had left him weakened, and the Taint made her _so strong_. 

“Amell—“  

“Do you remember,” she said dreamily, “that Orlesian opera we went to after that mess with the Nevarrans?  There was white marble, staircases, and so many roses all along the trellises…” 

“You hated it,” came the whispered reply.  A chuckle.  “They made you sneeze.” 

“It was miserable,” she agreed, and for a moment everything was normal again, she and Zevran laughing over old escapes and familiar antics.  “You took me to an Antivan style pub after and we drank ourselves silly.” 

A kiss against her brow, feather soft.  “We’ll do it again when we return.” 

The illusion broke.  Her grip tightened.  Blood roared in her ears.  “There was that awful lute solo halfway through, and when you thought it couldn’t get any worse—“ 

“Amell—“ 

“it would just go an octave higher, and higher, and higher—“  Her breath was coming fast, when did breathing become so hard – “until you were sure the strings were going to snap but it never stopped, it just kept rising until your ears were about to burst like so many sacs of rotted flesh hanging from the ceiling like candelabras and you couldn’t listen anymore but you have to, you have to listen—“ 

“Amell!” 

The crack of a skull hitting stone.  Her knee braced mercilessly into the soft give of a kidney.  Fingers clenched in filthy, matted, beautiful golden hair.  “You have to listen to it, you have no choice anymore,” she snarled, sobbed, “and the music goes on and on until it would be more merciful just to shoot the poor bastard dead, do you understand Zevran, it would be a mercy because there’s nothing.  More.  You.  Can.  Do!”  Zevran’s head rattled back and forth with each vicious little shake. 

Hands caught her own.  Firm and relentless, pressing back until her hands were caught together between his.  He looked up at her from the damp, cold rock. 

“Do I look like a merciful person,” he said flatly.  Tired, when did his eyes become so tired?  The arms holding her back shook.  “I am selfish beyond belief.  If it was a quick death you wanted you should have taken it from the archdemon.” 

“I thought we’d have more time!” 

“We’ll take what time we have.”  His breathing was labored, the lines around his eyes strained.  She could press her point, press _him_ , he knew pain knew how she could cause pain, had seen the violence in her.  Knew what she was capable of.  Would it be kinder to end his life quickly now, before she could do worse?

She pushed away and scrambled to the other side of the cave. 

Zevran rose slowly, gingerly.  Massaged under his ribs and winced – she averted her gaze, unable to look him in the eye.  

“I keep thinking about killing you,” she admitted dully.  He chuckled. 

“Most people do.”  Footsteps approaching, a pause ( _A hesitation_ part of her mind screamed.  _Good_ another screamed back) and then the sound of rustling cloth beside her as he sat. 

“I’m being serious.”    

Zevran hummed.  “You think about it.  But do you really want to do it?

“S-sometimes.” 

“You do, or the Taint?” 

“Is there a difference?” she asked bitterly. 

He leaned forward, pressed his lips to her brow.  “Of that, there is no doubt,” he murmured.  Thumbs stroked over her cheekbones and the gentleness of the gesture shattered something inside her.  “You are not all that corrupts.  You are brilliance, and sacrifice, and kindness when least looked for.” 

“And a Grey Warden.  The only thing that separates me from a darkspawn is time, Zevran.” 

“And this.”  Carefully, so very carefully, hands that had rent and gouged and strangled picked up her own and rested them above her heart.

“Mercy has always been your strong point, mi amor.  Not mine.” 

She was angry.  So angry at him, for his conviction, for his stubbornness, for his refusal to leave, and yet.  And yet.    

“You stubborn bastard,” she choked out. 

“Guilty as charged.”  He kissed her hands before withdrawing and bringing out a deck of cards.  “What say you to a game?” 

The comment surprised a bark of laughter from her.  “What?”

“A game.” 

He glanced at her, a smirk to his lips, eyes weary and affectionate and bright. 

She looked at him a bit helplessly.  “You’ll cheat,” she finally settled on.    

“And you’ll catch me.  Unless your reflexes have slowed since we last met Isabela, hmm?” 

The worn squares of cheap cardstock flew though his hands.  Songs.  Serpents.  Daggers.  The Angel of Death. 

The words came out without her permission.  “What would you have done if I hadn’t stopped?”

Zevran’s shuffling didn’t pause.  “You always stop.  Or do you think this is the first time you’ve tried to scare me away?” 

_Days blurring together, entire hours lost…_

“Have I ever—“  Her tongue wouldn’t form the words. 

The cards came to rest, their edges tapped on the ground until they were even.  Neatly, the deck was placed between them.  “No, my dear Warden,” he said softly.  “Not even once.” 

It won’t last, she thought, gazing at Zevran as he dealt the cards.  Next time, or the next after that, or the next after that.  How many times had she warned him already?  How many times until she would make good on her word?

She was a sword, hanging, hanging, ready to fall. 

“We were a bit occupied.  The last time,” she said, stilted, voice rough.  Just a night of cards.  She could give him a night of cards.  “With Isabela, I mean.” 

“Mmm, yes, our time with our dear Isabela always does seem to go that way, doesn’t it?” 

“We should visit her again.  After this is all over.” 

And the lies lying bitter on her tongue were worth it, to see the way his eyes lit up, his voice warm with hope ( _a fools dream, beaten out of her early by the sword of mercy but for him, for him, how she wanted so badly…_ ) as he replied.  “Yes, yes that is an excellent idea.  Although… did I ever tell you about the time I ran into her in Kirkwall?  Interesting story, that.” 

“Kirkwall?  What happened in bloody Kirkwall?” 

He chuckled.  “A story for another time.  If someone actually sleeps tonight like a good little warden I might tell it to her in the morning.” 

“Wardens hate sleeping,” she grumbled, but lay down obediently as a blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Wardens should learn to live a little like the rest of us mortals.  Then maybe they wouldn’t be such a grim bunch.” 

She squinted up at him as he prepared to lie down beside her.  “My wardens aren’t grim!” 

“I have met your wardens, my dear.” 

“…okay, most of my wardens aren’t grim.  Nate smiles sometimes!” 

He lay down – in front of her, he liked being the little spoon – and burrowed his head into her shoulder like the shameless heat leech he was.  “Yes, when he is turning things into pincushions.” 

“You smile when you’re killing things.”    

“Yes, but my smiles are always charming, beguiling even.  His is more of an unsettling facsimile.  A rictus, as it were.” 

She thought of Vigil’s Keep, of friends new and old, elves and dwarves and humans, thieves and nobles and mages and soldiers and outcasts.  _Her_ _wardens_.  “I want to find the cure for them, Zevran,” she whispered.    

A calloused hand covered hers.  “I know, mi amor.” 

The fire was banked, the night dark.  Exhausted as he was, Zevran soon fell asleep beside her, sides rising and falling in soundless, steady rhythm.  An assassin to the core, she thought fondly.  _A lover with all his heart_ , another part whispered. 

_From the moment we met, my life has always been in your hands._

The awareness came to her slowly, and rising even more so.  She separated by inches, holding her breath at every shift of fabric, freezing at every stuttered sigh until her lover’s breathing evened out again.  The ground was cold beneath her boots as she tread softly through their makeshift camp and grabbed her staff and blindly headed out into the dark.  She would need nothing else. 

Stumbling down the mountain, pulled forward with a surety in her blood like a lodestone pointing north, an urgency driving her forward as the night wind howled and plucked at her clothes but the cold had no hold on her, rending gnashing fetid flesh in her mouth consume DEVOUR –

“Hello Warden.” 

Her knees were shaking.  It didn’t matter.  Planting her staff on the rocky ground, she straightened her spine until they were eye to eye.  The Taint sang in her blood and she shuddered at the proximity. 

“It has been a long time, Architect.” 

Later would come confessions, pleading, explanations.  If she dared hope (and she did not dare often), perhaps even forgiveness. 

_I’m sorry, Zevran._

“Are you ready to go, Warden?” 

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.  Somewhere on the mountain above slept her lover, safe, alone.  As the two started out she turned back and touched the golden hoop hanging at her ear, eyes searching the dark for one last hint of a lonely campfire. 

 She’d come back when it was over.  There was no need to say goodbye. 


End file.
